Battle of the Bulge, For the Fifty-'Leventh Time
Last night Best Friend asked me to help her with her three-year-old twins, my wonderful nephews. As I got myself comfortable, taking off my sweatshirt, my eldest nephew, who loves words, looked at me and said, “Tummy.” “Yes, tummy,” I replied in that Sesame Street way we all talk to children, patting my sizeable bare gut obnoxiously displayed from the effort of me heaving the size-large sweatshirt off my person. Yes, child, I have a tummy.
Then the fucker took a few steps closer, pointed at said tummy, and worded, “Baby.”
Love is a powerful thing; he’s lucky I love him and am used to him sounding words all over the place. But he tried it. As did the intake nurse during my medical physical last week, when she told me I am 193 pounds. That woman received a “Bitch, what?!” she didn’t deserve. My apologies.
You don’t understand. My nickname growing up was “Skinny Bones Jones.” I weighed less than 100 pounds going into high school and left barely weighing 110, despite eating all the McDonald’s 20-piece chicken nuggets combos I could get my hands on. And I wasn’t at all fond of working out. Finding yourself stuck under a barbell in high school PE, surrounded by a small and unhelpful cluster of people chuckling, “Free Willy,” kind-of leaves a mark. Marching band kept me thin in college, but once I moved to New York and began living on my own, reveling in what I discovered is my natural homebody, “Feed me, Seymour,” couch-potato state, 135 pounds expanded to 160 and small shirts became mediums. I joined a gym—numerous gyms over the years—but couldn’t stay consistent long enough to see or feel a difference. So, the pounds slowly accumulated, primarily in the tummy I inherited from my father.
And here we are; a month before my 45th birthday. I weigh more than ever, size mediums are now larges, and toddlers think I’m carrying their cousins.
I have much work to do.
First of all, looking back, 2006 Will didn’t know what he was working with. That young man could/should have done some damage. Damn. Hell, even in 2015, had I stayed consistent with working out. I coulda been had a man <sigh>. Bygones. I know there’s almost two decades between the first and current images—and I’m fighting the delusion I can get my 2006 body back—but I am determined to achieve the Fourty-Phyne medium I feel on the inside. I want medium shirts to fit well. I want to tie my shoes without having to breathe myself through it. I want to turn heads when I walk down the street. I want to see my dick again when I look down in the shower.
I am currently 193 pounds and 25.2% body fat.
My goal is 165 pounds and 15% body fat. My doctor will be happy with anything around or below 170. I’m game. Admittedly, I really want to look better nekkid, but, in all seriousness, it is vitally important that I lower my A1C.
Second of all...EVERYONE GO TO THE DOCTOR AND GET A PHYSICAL!!
The Hemoglobin A1C blood test monitors one’s blood sugar levels over time, typically the last 3-6 months. The resulting percentage directly relates to one’s proximity to diabetes, which gets clocked at a repeated 6.5%. African Americans are at a higher risk of developing diabetes for a number of reasons, both physical and emotional, but, regardless of race or ethnicity, the primary factors, aside from genetics, are lack of exercise and poor diet. As my mom’s memory specialist put it:
“It’s not just about what’s on your plate, but how much is on your plate. Portion control is important, and you know we like to go back for seconds and thirds.”
He emphasized that point, specifically, because diabetes—having high blood sugar in general, really—can lead to dementia. My mom, for example, does not have a genetic disposition to dementia. Her situation is almost entirely a result of her lack of exercise and poor diet choices over the last thirty years..
Thus, my desire to break this “generational curse,” such as it is, begins.
For the last 3-4 years my A1C percentage has hovered around 5.8%. At 6.0%, my current A1C, like my weight, is the highest it’s ever been. My goal is to get my A1C down to 5.6% or below; anything in that green, normal, range of 4.6%-5.6%.
Thanks to being unemployed, and my not wanting to fall into clinical depression, I have started making exercise a non-negotiable in my daily life. Gym; a walk; bowling; nephew-helicoptor-ing. Whatever gets the body moving and the spirit happy. To quote Elle Woods: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't shoot their husbands. They just don't.”
I am proud to say I’m currently on a three-week-streak of hitting the gym three times a week, and I have been monitoring what I eat with the use of a meal and calorie tracker. I am not proud to say, however, that snacks be snackin’ and are a worthy and undisputed adversary.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint, I keep reminding myself. Ain’t trying to get to 165-15, as I call it, by the summer, but my DMs are open to dudes seeking a pregnant-looking-otter-type. Wait, am I an otter? I’m not a twink, not yet a daddy. Conversation for another day. Regardless, I do hope to reach my 165-15 goal by December 31, 2024, and master maintenance of my Fourty-Phyne self in 2025.
Keep me honest, y’all. If you see me with a donut in my hand, or my third/fourth drink at the kickback, point to my stomach and say, “Baby.”
That’ll do it.